


Insecurity: or How Agent Washington Got His Groove Back

by pippen2112



Series: RvB Smut Week 2k17 [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Bad Sex, Better Sex, Blow Jobs, Insecurities, Lavernius Tucker's Awful Flirting, Let Wash Have Nice Things, Light Angst, Lingerie, M/M, Negative Self Talk, New Relationship, RvB Smut Week, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 22:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11931090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: See, technically speaking, Tucker is Wash's first proper boyfriend, and if that isn't a depressing thought, Wash doesn't really know what is. But the thing is, as long as Wash has known him Tucker has never, ever--not even once when he was hopped up on morphine after Caboose stuck him in the ass with a full syringe--ever shown an interest in men.  He's Mr. Bow Chicka Bow Wow whenever a woman struts by, almost aggressively heterosexual.  Always complimenting a curvy figure in or out of armor.  Always cracking wise about his proficiency with the ladies.  In the last ten minutes alone Tucker has already tried chatting up four different women, each from different walks of life, each as different physically as can be imagined.And who did Tucker choose for a partner? Tucker chose Agent Washington, their used-up, worn-thin, overly scarred excuse for a leader.But if Tucker is so overtly into women, what the fuck does he see in me?





	Insecurity: or How Agent Washington Got His Groove Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Grimmalie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimmalie/gifts).



> Story based off of and dedicated to my friend Grimmalie :)

_ Okay _ , Wash thinks as Tucker's lips trail down Wash's neck, tracing patterns he can only describe as sinful, _ this is a big deal. _  Because, no shit, it's a big fuckin' deal.  Because Tucker is alive and well, despite Felix and that damn combat knife he so favors.  Alive and well and no longer hopped up on pain killers like he was when Wash confessed his feelings after Tucker got out of emergency surgery--Tucker had giggled as Wash dumped out his heart, his hands shaking at how close it had been, how he'd nearly lost--

Yeah, if Wash ever catches Felix unawares, he's gonna turn the mercenary into a pin cushion before putting a bullet in his head because no one,  _ no one _ , touches his team and gets away with it.

But this, right here, right now, this is huge.  Because it's Tucker's first day out of the infirmary, his first day cleared for active duty since Wash's heart fell out of his mouth and into Tucker's lap.  And Tucker is doing his best to get his mouth on every inch of Wash's skin.  In the middle of the hallway.  Where anyone can see them.  And if that doesn't make the knot of anxiety coil tighter in Wash's stomach, nothing will.  

He pulls back, and Tucker chases after him, lipping at the air.  Grinning, Wash clears his throat and murmurs, "I gotta get the door open, Tucker."

Tucker huffs and steps back into Wash's space, mouth hot and insistent on Wash's neck.  Wash's back hits the door, and Tucker ruts against him, hot and hard and groaning.  Pressed flush from nose to toes.  "C'mon, Wash.  Let's just do it here.  Give 'em a show.  Raise a little morale, maybe?"

"Tucker."

"Raise more than morale.  Bow chicka bow wow."

Those four familiar words leave a sour taste in Wash's mouth.  He forces out a chuckle and turns in Tucker's grip, fumbling for his room key.  Undeterred, Tucker steps up until his hips slide snug against Wash's ass, breathing against Wash's neck.  Wash shivers.  Focuses on unlocking the door.  Absolutely does not think about the hot line of pressure cradled between his ass cheeks.  Or about how given everything Wash has learned about Tucker, he's fairly certain Tucker's never been with a man.  No, if Wash were thinking about that, he'd be tense from head to toe. And he's not tense.  Not.  At.  All.

_ Fuck, how am I gonna handle this? _

His hands go numb.  The keys clatter against the lock and fall.  But Wash's head is a fog of static, the same question battering against his skull.

Before he can even contemplate an answer, Tucker chuckles against his skin and says, "Here, lemme get it."

Tucker unlocks the door, muscles them both insides, and pauses just long enough to snatch up Wash's keys and pull the door closed behind him.  He tosses both sets of keys on the little desk beside the door, steps in front of Wash, and cups his cheeks.  All reassuring smiles and sass.  "Well, beautiful."  Wash blushes.  "Now that we're alone," Tucker grabs Wash around the waist, dips him low and kisses away Wash's startled "whaaaaaat?"

After a moment, Wash sighs and melts into Tucker's grip.  Yeah, it's been years since he last went to bed with someone, maybe longer since he's been kissed--and yes, Wash is well aware that his love life has been royally fucked since joining Project Freelancer, he doesn't need anyone else reminding him--but Tucker makes it feel like he's not half as rusty as Wash knows he is.  With Tucker, the kiss is all heat and passion pouring out of him, but he's also surprisingly careful with Wash, cradling his cheek and petting his hair and holding him upright when his legs turn to jelly.  It's nice.  But the knot in his chest just won't unknit.

When they break for air, Tucker leans his forehead against Wash and asks, "You okay in there, Wash?"

Wash nods slowly, struggling to catch his breath, to get his head on straight, to find an excuse for his sloppy performance.  "Yeah, I'm good.  It's just.... it's been a while."

Tucker doesn't press Wash on exactly how long it's been.  Instead, he nuzzles into Wash's chest and wraps his arms around him, holding him tight.  "That's cool," he mumbles into Wash's chest.  "We don't have to do anything.  I'm just glad to be out of the infirmary."

The blood drain out of Wash's face.  That's just the point, isn't it?  Sure, Tucker's out of the infirmary today, but they're in the middle of a war zone.  Who knows how long they'll both be in the same camp, or uninjured, or al--

Shutting down that line of thinking, Wash tips up Tucker's chin, kissing him hard and walking them toward to the nearest cot.  They topple together onto rumpled sheets than smell coconut oil and musk.  Tucker's bunk.  Good.  For what's about to happen, they'll need condom.  Wash's throat constricts.  Maybe not condoms.  Maybe just lube, because yeah, Wash is no blushing virgin, but it's still been a while and his heart is beating away like he's surrounded by enemies and running low on ammo.  But that's ridiculous.  It's just Tucker underneath him.  On a bed.  Behind a locked door.  Wash Swallows, forcing down the knot in his throat.

Tucker rucks off his shirt and for a moment, Wash can only stare. From the neck down, Tucker is smooth skin and subtle definition.  Wash's breath actually sticks in his chest.  He reaches out on an impulse, his fingers sweeping over Tucker's pecs.  Tucker hums contentedly, sprawling out like a cat in a sunbeam.  He's beautiful.  Flushing, Wash splays is fingers along Tucker's abs, keeping careful distance from the still bandaged stomach wound, and drags his voice back into commission. "You wax?"

Chuckling breathily, Tucker says, "Fuck yeah I do!  I worked for this body.  Not gonna let something like body hair deter that.  Plus the ladies love you, y'kno----oh!" Tucker moans when Wash grazes his nipples, just to be cheeky.

In retaliation, Tucker leans up and bites Wash's neck just below his ear.  A whimper slips past Wash's lips.  Tucker grins and reaches for Wash's shirt. 

Before Wash can stop himself, he grabs Tucker's wrists, stalling him.  Tucker looks up at him, his pupils wide but his brow wrinkled in question.  Wash looks down at his chest, breathing purposefully.  "Can I..." Wash trails off, scrubbing his neck as his cheeks burn hotter and hotter.  "I'm not.... it's been..."

"Dude, you can keep your shirt on if it'll make you feel better." Tucker says after the third time Wash loses his words.  "But I bet you've got me beat Agent Every-Day-Is-Leg-Day."

Before Wash can protest, Tucker's mouth is back on his, tongue insistent, tugging Wash down on top of him.

And trust Tucker to skip past foreplay, trailing down to Wash's waistband and teasing his fingers down below the elastic line.  Wash gasps, blood pumping hot in his ears.  He pulls back from the kiss, drops his head to rest against Tucker's sternum, and wills his body to cooperate.  Chuckling to himself, Tucker reaches lower, sliding down and cupping Wash's dick.  His most definitively, undeniably limp dick.  

Wash's cheeks burn as he attempt to bury his face in Tucker's chest.   _ No, no, no.  Not now _ .  Not the first time Tucker is interested in trying out this "of course I care about you and I'm interested, you dumb fuck, why do you think I've been beating back all these New Republic bitches with a baseball bat" thing they have going on.  This is a big fuckin deal of a thing, and of course his penis is just not following the plan.

"Huh," Tucker says as his fingers scope out the size and heft of Wash's dick, "you know for a guy who hasn't done this in a while, I figured you'd be a bit more...eager, I guess?"

Instead of rising to Tucker's jest, no matter how good natured, Wash shuffles down the cot until he's face level with Tucker's groin.  Tucker's very interested, crotch-rippingly prominent groin.  Wash flushes so hard his scalp starts sweating.  Of course Tucker is hard and ready. Because Tucker's not goddamn broken.

Shaking his head, Wash drags down Tucker's fatigues and underwear and retorts, "Oh, I'll show you eager, Lavernius," before going to town.

#

Tucker lasts exactly forty-three seconds.  But, to be fair, he'll later recall those as forty-three of the most earth shattering seconds of his life.

#

"Come on, Captain Tucker," Wash chides as he drags Tucker out of their quarters.  "We're gonna be late for the meeting."

Tucker rolls his eyes, stumbling after Wash as he fixes the last few clips on his armor, leaving off his helmet as long as he can get away with it.  "Oh please, like you know how to be anything but painfully early anywhere you go."  Tucker rolls his shoulders like a cat.  "You know, folk's'll start talking, saying I'm not doing my job if you keep that stick lodged so far up your ass.  Maybe after the meeting, you and I can do some horizontal rearranging.  Bow chicka bow wow." 

Wash would shake his head and make some comment about proper decorum of an officer, but then he wouldn't get the lovely view of sleepy Tucker yawning and rubbing his heavy eyes to keep them open.  The sight is so cute, Wash nearly forgets himself and reaches out to grab Tucker's hand.  His ears heat up inside his helmet, and he can see his pulse tick faster on his HUD.  Fuck, he is so out of his depth it's unbelievable. 

It's been a long time since Wash has been in anything resembling a relationship.  Back home, he had a summer romance with the girl next door before she shipped off to another colony to train as a nurse, but that was when he was sixteen and stupid.  But after he enlisted and was sent off to wall, all he's had is the occasional fling with a fellow soldier to burn off post-battle adrenaline when he was just thankful to be alive.  And when he got snatched up by Project Freelancer, with its rivalries and competitions and leaderboard system, most of his teammates were too wrapped up in their own issues to be interested in a rookie like him.

(Well, strictly speaking that wasn't entirely true.  Maine showed Wash exactly how being manhandled thrilled and terrified him, and North, well, Wash really doesn't like thinking about North.  Mostly because North was there for him after Connie died, when everything with the Project was falling to pieces around him and Wash couldn't do a damn thing to make it right.  But gun to his head, Wash wouldn't have called what he had with either man a relationship.  That was just stress relief.)

So yeah, Wash has been walking on eggshells for the last two weeks, ever since their less than stellar attempt at sex, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  So Wash politely ignore the comment, nudging Tucker down the corridor.  "The war never stops, Tucker.  Besides, if you get to the meeting early, you get your pick of seats."  For Wash that mean his back to the wall, backed into an interior corner with everyone in his line of sight.  For Tucker that means a chair near the back where he can sneak off for bathroom breaks or catch a few z's.  

Tucker expresses his  _ immense _ agreement by blowing a raspberry in Wash's direction.  Wash flushes down to the collar of his underarmor, forever thankful for his helmet.   _ Good job, Wash.  This is the idiot you picked.  Now you get to deal with him. _

The moment they turn the next corner, however, Tucker stands a little taller and walks a little smoother, his grin broad and his eyes twinkling.   _ What the-- oh. _  Wash follows Tucker's gaze and catches three very familiar armored figures standing outside the meeting room: General Kimball, Dr. Gray, and Carolina.  Wash's stomach twists uncomfortably as Tucker marches forward, tipping his head in greeting.  "General, Doctor, Agent," Tucker greets with a grin, "man, you three just put the 'fox' in 'foxhole'."

"Tucker," Carolina says in that carefully even tone that makes even Wash's balls retreat, and he hasn't done anything wrong expect maybe associate with Tucker.

Undeterred, Tucker presses on.  "I'm just saying, a little whiskey, a little tango, and I'd be all over that foxtrot."

Dr. Gray giggles, actually giggles.  Kimball and Carolina throw her a concerned look before Gray steps toward Tucker and pinches his cheek.  "Oh, sweetie, nothing you said makes any sense. If there's gonna be dancing, you should bring tequila, not whiskey. But since we currently don't have access to either, we'll have to give it a rain check."

"Uh... I mean, I..." Tucker gapes, his mouth twitching for a response but nothing sensible comes out.

Wash takes pity on him, claps him on the shoulder, and nudges him inside the room.  He watches Tucker trudge inside, struggling to contain his grin.  He nods a brief greeting to Dr. Gray and General Kimball before balling his hands and commenting, "Good morning.  I would apologize for... well, everything, but--"

"At ease, Agent Washington," Kimball interrupts, her usually haggard voice a touch lighter.  "We all know how Tucker is."

At the very clear dismissal, Wash nods and makes his way into the room.  Already, Tucker is seated on a backward chair, chin propped up on one palm and chatting up another woman in green-accented FAC armor.  Wash gulps, sneaking around the room to his favorite corner, the one the base's overtaxed A/C vents have an unnaturally affinity toward.  He drags a chair into the corner, crosses his arms, and stews as the chain of command files in.

Se, technically speaking, Tucker is Wash's first proper boyfriend, and if that isn't a depressing thought, Wash doesn't really know what is.  At least Tucker hasn't made a big deal about it, just one day at lunch he slung his arm around Wash's waist and told Grif to scooch down and "make room for my boyfriend, dick."  If Wash hadn't been wearing his helmet when Tucker dropped that bomb, the entire lunch hall would've gotten a sneak peek at Wash doing his best impersonation of a strawberry.  But since then, things have been good.  They have, really.  Or at least, that's what Wash says whenever pressed.

Not that Tucker's a bad boyfriend--by all accounts he's better than Wash ever hoped for.  But the thing is, as long as Wash has known him Tucker has never, ever--not even once when he was hopped up on morphine after Caboose stuck him in the ass with a full syringe-- _ ever _ shown an interest in men.  He's Mr. Bow Chicka Bow Wow whenever a woman struts by, almost aggressively heterosexual.  Always complimenting a curvy figure in or out of armor.  Always cracking wise about his proficiency with the ladies.  In the last ten minutes alone Tucker has already tried chatting up four different women, each from different walks of life, each as different physically as can be imagined.

And who did Tucker choose for a partner?  A woman with luscious curves and fiery eyes and a light and lilting laugh?  A slender young man with a sharp tongue and a hypnotic voice and oozing sexuality?  Nope.  Instead, Tucker chose Agent Washington, their used-up, worn-thin, overly scarred excuse for a leader.  And yeah, Wash is well aware that the only thing about him that could be mistaken for feminine is his blonde hair that's a couple inches past regulation length.  So yeah, Wash can't exactly begrudge Tucker for having a wandering eye; he doesn't mind it, strictly speaking.   _ But if Tucker is so overtly into women, what the fuck does he see in me?  _

Shoulders slumped, Wash's mind wanders through the meeting, his attention shot.  Mostly it's the New Republic and Federal Army finding new ways to snipe at each other over every little unimportant detail.  Training schedule dilemmas, housing complaints, even dietary restrictions--which, really, how are they not just pleased with the fact that by pooling resources, both armies actually have enough food to survive more than week to week.  

Midway through the meeting, Wash's HUD pings with a text chat.  Because he has nothing to contribute to the debate about digging a new latrine pit, Wash opens it.

_ Booooooooooored. What r u wearing? - T _

Wash peers across the meeting room, finds Tucker reclined on his chair, asleep to any onlooker, but instead, he's sexting?  A laugh bubbles up in Wash's throat, but he gulps it down as he composes a reply.

_ You could open your eyes and see for yourself. _

_ >_> cmon play along dude. - T _

_ *sighs* oh Tucker, you know me. Just lounging around the house in this old cheerleading uniform and no skivvies. _

_ O.O tell me more? - T _

_ Only if you pay attention. _

_ XP ur no fun. _

This time, Wash lets himself chuckle under his breath.  When he checks across the room, Tucker's sitting up again, propping his head up with his hands, but he's at least putting in a visible effort.  Even if their sex life consists mostly of kisses and cuddles and a few less than stellar handjobs--and Wash has to give Tucker credit for stroking him for forty minutes before Wash gently pulled his hand away and distracted Tucker from his decidedly disinterested penis--even though it's probably been so boring all things considered, Tucker's curled up around him every night, no matter how tired they are or what time Wash gets in.  

That's gotta count for something.

#

By the time the meeting winds down, Tucker is nursing a semi and itching to run his hands through Wash' hair, see if he'll purr if Tucker works him hard enough.  Bow chicka bow wow.  But when Kimball and Doyle dismiss everyone, a hand slaps on Tucker's shoulder.  Carolina.  And from the extra pressure she's using, it doesn't feel like she's here to talk about how he needs to stop encouraging the Feds and News that they can get with her if they just work on their pickup game.  

"We need to talk," she says pointedly as the chain of command starts filing out of the conference room.

"For you, babe, anytime," Tucker answers, but his voice isn't half as steady as he'd like.  He scans the room for Wash, praying he can sway Wash to his rescue with a pair of puppy dog eyes and the promise of actually getting out of bed when his alarm goes off.  But all he sees is Wash's back ducking out of the room, shoulders square and steady like he's marching off to battle.  

For a moment, Tucker panics.   _ Did Kimball give him some super-secret mission while I was trying to get him to talk dirty? _ No, that can't be it.  Tucker's pretty damn good at multitasking; he'd have noticed Wash getting new orders.

While the room clears, Carolina leans against the back wall, carefully positioned between Tucker and the nearest exit.  And now that she's got Epsilon running her armor enhancements, there's no way Tucker could make it to the emergency exit before she caught him.  Fuck.

Kimball is the last to leave, pulling the door closed behind her.  Even though she's in full armor, Tucker would swear she's smirking.  His gut drops.  Double fuck. 

But if there's one thing Tucker's great at, it's faking it.  Just ask nine out of his last ten girlfriends.  He sprawls back in his chair.  "What's happenin', 'Lina?"

Carolina chuckles, that eerie cryptic laugh she makes when she's midway through sparing laps around her opponent and enjoying it immensely.  "So. You and Wash, huh?"

"Well, yeah," Tucker says, crossing his arms.  "You'd have to be an idiot to turn down that man."

"Uh huh.  So that little display in the hallway was..."

Tucker's stomach lurches.  He already knows where this conversation is headed, and he's had his nuts threatened more than enough for one lifetime.  He holds up his hands peacefully.  "Woah, there.  I'm with Wash now, Lina.  Can't go hopping ship for another Freelance, even one as stylish as you." He even throws in a pair of fingerguns, hoping they'll lighten the mood.  Carolina doesn't even flinch.  Tucker goes on. "Yeah, I flirt around the base, try to brighten the collective mood around this place, but Wash is my man.  At the end of the day, all I wanna do is go home with him.  Be all domestic and shit."

Just at that moment, Epsilon appears hovering over Carolina's shoulder, head thrown back and shoulders hiked in disgust.  "That may be the most disgusting thing I've ever heard come outta your mouth, Tucker, and we were bunk buddies when you were going through your 'I like ladies who can beat me up' phase."

"Hey, that wasn't a phase!" Tucker snaps back.

"Oh please."

"Epsilon," Carolina cuts in, her voice unyielding as steel.  A moment later, Epsilon sighs and disappears off to do whatever he does when they aren't in the field.  Carolina rolls her shoulders, standing to her full height and striding over to Tucker.  "Just to be clear, Tucker, I believe you.  Though I may not agree with your methods, I've seen the way you two look at each other enough to know that you care about each other.  Genuinely and deeply.  But..." She pauses, leaning down until there's barely an inch between their helmets.  "If you hurt him in any way, shape, or form, there will be nowhere on this planet I won't find you.  Not even if Epsilon tries to stall me.  And no one,  _ no one _ , will be able to put you back together when I'm through with you."

Tucker swallows around the knot in his throat, forcing himself to nod.  "Understood."

"Good.  See that I don't have to," she comments as she draws back and heads out the door.

Only when the sound of her heels fade down the hallway does Tucker unclench.  Fuck.

_ If I fuck things up with Wash, I hope to god Felix gets me first. _

Because, yeah, Carolina is ten times scarier than Felix any day of the week. 

#

By the time Wash fumbles open the door to his quarters and slumps against the wall, it's pushing 0100 hours.  Wash shoves of his helmet and sucks in his first breaths of fresh air since lunchtime--did he even have lunch?  He remembers bashing heads with Kimball outside the mess hall, probably about something needlessly stupid the way his brain has been churning the past few days, overstimulated and over worked.  Fuck, he can't remember taking two seconds to sit his ass down and eat a little grub.  Fuck.

The days have been blurring together around him into one big haze of frustration, and Wash doesn't have the patience to fight his way out.  And it's not like his surroundings are making things any better.  The New Republic and the Federal Army of Chorus are making Wash's life a living hell.  For over two months now, this tenuous alliance has been tearing itself apart at every possible turn.  While Wash will admit, a little bit of competition is great for morale and pushes soldiers to try harder, train longer, and win, this is getting ridiculous.  This past week alone, he hasn't managed to get through a single mixed army training session without chaos breaking out and him having to send the offenders off to run laps because they don't have enough bodies on the field to afford court martials.  At this point, he's not angry anymore; now, he's just plain exhausted.

Wash starts stripping out of his armor on auto-pilot.  Sure, he's done this a couple thousand times before, but his fingers don't want to listen to him.  Usually at this point, he'd just give up and bunk up in his power armor.  He's done it more than his fair share, but if Tucker wants to snuggle in the middle of the night while Wash is still suited up, Wash is infinitely more likely to accidentally hurt Tucker when he thrashes awake.  And that, yeah, that's not happening.  Not in a million years.  Not if he has anything to say about it.

He gets off the chest plating and the guards on his arms and thighs easily enough, but when Wash tries to get his gloves unlaced from his under armor, he just can't work the angles.  He tries for three minutes, twisting into different angles, trying to pry them loose with his teeth, failing every time.  Just before Wash can sigh and flop down on his cot in an exaggerated signal of surrender, he hears a cot spring squeaking and Tucker's signature wake-up sniffle.  "Wash?"

_ Fuck! _  Wash freezes.  Shit, Tucker.  How did he forget that Tucker was probably sleeping?  For fuck's sake, why would Tucker be anywhere else?  And now Wash has gone and woken him up.   _ Boyfriend of the year. _  "Sorry," he says as calmly as he can.  "Go back to sleep, Tucker."  And maybe if he does, Wash can dump himself into a cot and pass out until his pre-dawn jog along the base perimeter.

But Tucker doesn't roll over and drift back to sleep.  Instead, Tucker shuffles across the darkened room, stubbing his toes along the way.  He hisses through his teeth but keeps his pace until he's pressed against Wash's back.  Wash's still armored back.  That can't be comfortable.  Before Wash can tell Tucker he's got this covered, steady hands slide across his under armor, carefully and methodically tracing the edges of the armor until he finds the clips and unlatches them.  

Tucker doesn't say a word as he makes quick work of Wash's armor.  His hands stay firm against Wash, warm even through the under armor.  Wash falls backward into every touch, his eyelids drooping.  By the time he's down to his under armor, Wash is little more than a puddle of goo held together by spite and determination, upright solely because of his surprisingly well-built boyfriend.  

And when cool air touches his skin, Wash lets out a weak little whimper.  Tucker curls around him, working the sweat-soaked suit off him in quick motions.  When he's finished, Tucker stands on his tip-toes and kisses Wash between his shoulder blades, holding him so tight Wash nearly forgets how to breathe.

It's so painfully sweet, Wash nearly cries.

"Fuck, dude," Tucker grumbles against his skin.  "When was the last time you showered?"

Flushing, Wash tries to pull out of Tucker's arms.  "Been busy.  I'll grab one in the morning."

Tucker snorts.  "Nuh uh, c'mon Wash.  Let's get you cleaned up."

Tucker's fingers entwine with his, and Wash is hopeless but to follow.

Since it's well after lights out, the officer's bathroom is dark and deserted.  Even if the joint base is always in some kind of chaos, in the dead of night, even the war machine lulls.  Tucker shepherds Wash to the sinks and leans Wash in the corner.  When he draws away, Wash's grip tightens.  Tucker come back, cupping Wash's cheek with his other hand.  "I'm gonna get the water going.  Won't be long, I promise."

Through the dimness, Wash can see so much earnestness in Tucker's eyes.  Flushing, Wash leans forward and kisses him.  Aims for his lips but ends up at Tucker's nose.  Tucker laughs and squeezes Wash's hand before retreating.  A few seconds later, Wash hears a curmudgeonly showerhead roar to life, and within minutes, humidity fills the air. Wash sighs and rests his head against his shoulder.

"Hey," Tucker says, alerting Wash to his presence before resting his hands on Wash's hips.  Wash blinks and gets an eyeful of Tucker, naked as the day he was born, his eyelids heavy but his smile soft and gentle.  "Okay if we ditch these?"  To clarify, he gently snaps the elastic on Wash's boxers against his skin.

If Wash weren't pushing 22 hours without sleep--not the longest he's gone, but it's not exactly pleasant--if he weren't ready to just curl up and die on the nearest flat surface, he'd likely turn beet red and start stammering.  Because, fuck, he's half-naked already.  When did that happen?  Tucker can see him.  Every inch of scarred up skin. Every imperfection.  Wash's hands itch to cover himself, to hide, but Tucker's eyes aren't roaming, aren't drifting southward.  Hell, even Sir Engorgeous isn't even at half-mast. Somehow, that little realization is enough.  Wash shucks down his underpants in one quick motion and heads toward the shower.  

Wash hisses at the first sting of hot water on his skin, hotter than he's felt it in weeks.  He sighs, submerging himself in the stream.  Fuck, if he actually gets something more than a lukewarm trickle, Wash might have to make middle of the night showers a thing.

Behind him, Tucker chuckles softly, pressing careful kisses along Wash's shoulders, steering clear of Wash's neural implants.  A tiny moan reverberates in Wash's throat but he holds himself back.  No time for hanky panky.  No energy either. Before he can say as much, something crisp and clean smelling fills the shower, and steady hands work through his hair, carefully working free the knots and massaging his scalp.  Wash nuzzles backward into the pressure.  He's fall on his face and probably drown were it not for Tucker standing firm.  

"You don't have to--"

"I know," Tucker says matter-of-factly. "Doesn't mean I'm not gonna."

Wash bites his lip, widens his stance, and lets Tucker work.  

After ten short minutes of soothing and scrubbing, Wash feels relaxed.  More relaxed than he's been in years, if not every.  No, here in this tiny, tile cubicle, he's been shrouded in warm water and pampered within an inch of his sanity.  And it's wonderful.  Honestly, he may never shower alone again if he can help it.  

When Tucker reaches around them and turns off the tap, Wash can barely hold himself up.  Good thing Tucker is strong enough for both of them and just as stubborn as Wash. But Wash can't help his wandering gaze as Tucker towels him off.  Cocooned in hazy comfort on the edge of unconsciousness, Wash can't stop himself staring.  From his lopsided smile, to his sturdy shoulders, even down to his cute little toes, Tucker is gorgeous.  Not even the ragged C-section scar or the raw pink mark from Felix's knife can diminish that beauty.  Wash's heartbeat stutters in his check.   _ Fuck, I don't deserve a guy like him. _

Without thinking, Wash reaches out, his fingers skimming over Tucker's stomach, trailing down before Tucker grabs his wrist, kisses Wash's tender pulse point, and sets his hand on Tucker's shoulder as they finish drying.   _ Stupid. _  Eyes prickling, Wash squeezes them closed, exhales, and lets Tucker work.   _ Fuckin' idiot, Washington.  You're just sleep deprived.  Sooner we're done here, the sooner we get to bed. _

The journey back to their quarters is just as blurry as the outbound trip.  When they get back, Tucker sits Wash down on his cot and dresses him in a clean pair of skivvies and athletic shorts.  Not bothering to clothe himself, Tucker pulls Wash into bed and curls up behind him.  Even combs his fingers through Wash's hair.  Shivering, Wash whispers, "You don't need to."

"You'll thank me in the morning, dude," Tucker comments as he works out a knot.  "Hair's getting pretty long.  Soon it'll be a mess to manage."

"Yeah," Wash gulps.  "Keep forgetting to get it cut."

As Tucker starts twisting strands into a tidy braid, he comments, "Only if you want to."  When he's finished, he kisses Wash's shoulder blade and wraps himself around Wash.  "You'd look hot with long hair."

Blushing, Was burries his face in his pillow and tangles his fingers with Tucker's.  Sure, Tucker's wrong, probably just being sweet.  Still, Wash'll deal with all this....later.  Until then, there's sleep.

#

_ Five more minutes, _ Tucker thinks as he watches Wash's chest rise and fall slow and steady.  The sun will be rising soon, and Tucker'll bet a week's worth of chocolate rations that Wash'll be pissy about missing his crack-of-dawn run, but fuck it.  Wash deserves a little R and R, and if he won't take it for himself, Tucker will drag him there kicking and screaming.  

And once Wash is back to his usual self, maybe Tucker can get him screaming in other ways.   _ Bow chicka bow wow. _

#

When Wash sees a group of cadets lollygagging around between the mess hall and the barracks, a part of him snaps.  Honestly.  Just because Felix and Locus are out of the picture, that doesn't mean the war is over.  Just because the UNSC ships are on their way, that doesn't mean all of Charon's forces are going to lay down their arms and come quietly.  Honestly, how these idiots have survived this long, Wash will never know.  But until reinforcements officially arrive, they're still on duty.  All of them.

Squaring his shoulders, Wash marches up behind the group and says, "And what exactly do we have here?"

Jumping out of their skins, the soldiers scamper into line, all trying to look as innocent and inoffensive as possible.  Were it any other day, he might crack a smile at the audacity of it all.  Instead, he scan down the line of soldiers, his gaze landing on a knock-kneed kid, his hands stuffed behind his back, his shoulders trembling.  "Name, soldier?"

Swallowing visibly, the soldier responds, "Muffkin, sir.  Corporal Piercenold Muffkin."  His voice even cracks.

_ Crist, with a name like that, I almost feel sorry for the kid.  Almost. _  Wash tilts his head and holds out his hand, palm up.  "Corporal Muffkin, you have something you're hiding from me.  Isn't that right, soldier?"

Muffkin shudders, but under Wash's stare, he produces exactly what had the soldiers so enraptured: a magazine.  Glossy paper, worn around the edges.  But when Wash gets a better look at the cover, his eyes bulge.  His hands fist around the magazine, snatching it out of the soldier's grip.  

"Porn?  The lot of you skipped out on our morning training... FOR PORN?!?"

Wash blacks out quick as a snap, but when he comes to, his lungs and throat hurt from shrieking, something tacky is dripping from his nose, and the soldiers are scrambling down the alley toward the training center with their tails between their legs.  Once they're gone, Wash collapses against the wall, his head throbbing.  Fuck, he hasn't been this stressed out since the crash site, and now here he is, the tides of the war turned in their favor, the enemy figureheads disposed of, and he's screeching at soldiers and getting nosebleeds.  

Back at his quarters, Wash takes off his helmet and grabs a cloth out of the laundry hamper.  As he scrubs his face, his gaze falls on the dirty magazine he dropped beside his helmet.  A magazine?  Really?  In this day and age?  It should probably be in a museum, though the kind of museum you need a full decontaminations shower once you've explored the exhibits.  Tucker probably knows the coordinates for such a place.

Once his nose has stopped bleeding, Wash sags heavily on the edge of the bed, his curiosity too much for him.  He thumbs open the magazine, and a laugh startles out of him.  An honest to god laugh.  Because it's not a porno mag.  It's a lingerie catalogue.  And he went off on those soldiers like it was a breach in base security.  Christ, everyone left alive in the fight is so young, this might be the closest thing to porn they've ever seen.  And even if Wash never put much stock in masturbatory aids, he knows there's a wide gulf between underwear models and porn stars.

Wash flips through a few pages for shits and giggles, not really looking at the model's pictured, but the colors catch his eye.  All the garments look so soft he can practically imagine the sensation of cloth against his skin.  So touchable.  So ... He doesn't even know how to describe it.  When he turns the page to a spread of a model in pale pink silk, Wash blushes dark.

_ Fuck, that set is gorgeous. _

The door swings open and Tucker strides in, helmet under his arm, armor clinging to him.  "Fuck, I am ready for grub and a shower.  You would not believe how shitty it is scouring the mountains for a tangerine asshole's corpse.  Wanna get wet with me?" 

Wash gapes at Tucker, slamming the magazine shut and shoving it behind him on impulse.  Tucker cocks his head to the side and strides a little closer, a teasing twist to his mouth.  Wash's cheeks burn.  He is so fucked.

"What've you got there, Wash?  C'mon.  Not like you jerking it is gonna upset me."

"No, I wasn't--"

Tucker cuts in, placing a finger on Wash's lips before dropping his helmet on the bed next to Wash's and sliding into Wash's lap.  Given the fact they're both in power armor, it's a tricky fit, but Tucker works himself into place, smirking.  "Shhh, don't go pretending.  Now tell me, what's got you hot and bothered?"

Wash's heart thumps against his ribcage.  No, that can't be what's happening here, can it?  Wash doesn't do "hot and bothered." Sure, he's easily riled about things like protocol and training ad chain of command.  But then again, his head feels lighter than normal and his throat is parched.   _ Huh, well that's new. _

When Wash doesn't respond immediately, Tucker leans in and tips up Wash's chin.  One moment, Wash can think and breath; the next, his everything is Tucker.  Urgent lips against his own.  A tongue probing for entrance.  Wash sinks back into the mattress, pulling Tucker onto his lap.  Humming in appreciation, Tucker mouths at his neck, working up to that special spot just below his ear.  Wash can't help it: he melts.  

Of course, right then Tucker starts laughing.  Wash forces his eyes open as Tucker leans back, his whole body shaking from the force of his laughter.  And there in Tucker's hands is the damned lingerie catalogue.  Breathing harshly, Wash grapples for the magazine, half wanting to rip it to shreds, half wanting to slam it in the trash can and retrieve it once Tucker's out of the room.  But under their combined weights, Wash topples and Tucker lands heavily on him.

Cackling, Tucker sits up quickly, pinning Wash's arms with his knees and holding the magazine overhead like a prize.  "I can't fuckin' believe it!  You don't even jerk it to porn.  You just look at ladies underwear!  Fuck, Wash, that is, like, painfully adorable."

Wash tugs to free his hands, but no dies.  He groans.  "Tucker, I swear to God, if you don't shut up, I'll--"

"Hey, hey," Tucker says as he swoops down and captures Wash's mouth again.  When he pulls back, Wash can see so much of the light and life in Tucker's dark eyes, that gleam that has been dampened since Epsilon.  His gut clenches when Tucker smirks.  "Don't use your sexy voice on me.  You know I'm already down to clown."

Tucker scoots off the cot and kneels between Wash's legs, face level with his groin.  Blushing, Wash grapples until he finds Tucker's hand and squeezes hard.  "Tucker, you don't have to--"

"Dude, shut up, and let me make you feel good."  Without pause, Tucker unclips Wash's cod piece and eases out his dick.  

Wash squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to keep breathing.   _ Please, oh please,  _ Wash prays to any god who'll hear him,  _ please just work for once, you stupid,  _ stupid _ dick. _

And when tight, wet heat engulfs him, Wash whimpers.  Fuck, Tucker has him in his mouth, and it's too much, too much.

But not enough.

#

_ Holy shit, there's a dick in my mouth.  Holy shit.   _ Wash moans above him, long and high and needy.  _...holy fuck... _

After twenty minutes, Tucker's jaw aches, his knees are screaming at him--especially after that fucking awful meeting too--and the taste of pre-cum is hanging at the back of his throat, salty and tacky and not that great.  Wash isn't quite half-hard, but from the noises coming out of his mouth, you'd never tell.  Wash's spine is bowed against the cot, one hand fisted behind his head, the other gentle on the back of Tucker's neck, his fingers trailing over Tucker's jaw and under his chin.  

Wash pushes him back carefully, sucking in air so hard you'd think he was the one who'd just been on his knees.  "Tuck, you can... you can stop... I don't think it's gonna happen for me."

Propping himself up, Tucker looks up at Wash's tear stained cheeks, his messy hair, and his wide, wild eyes.  "Is it hurting? Do you want me to stop?" he asks carefully.

"What?" Wash replies between gasps.  "No... no, you're doing great, I just.... sometimes I can't--"

"Then let me have some fun, 'kay?  I'll tap out when I want a breather."

Tucker will never forget that stupid, stunned expression that crosses Wash's face before he dives back it.

Ten out of ten, will bang again. Repeatedly.

#

_ This is a bad idea.   _

Wash sighs down at his feet.  He's been standing here in the hall for the past ten minutes, talking himself into and out of knocking.  Honestly, he doesn't need to do this.  The people of Chorus need food, medical supplies, habitable living spaces, all things of higher priority than his stupid little want.  In a few weeks the UNSC will get the supply lines up and running, and if he requisitions one or two questionable packages, no one in requisitions will bat an eye.  He should just be patient and wait his goddamn turn.

_ But if you don't do it now, you're never gonna do it. _

It's true.  The longer Wash waits, the stronger that timid little shit in his brain gets, the one that still thinks he's thirteen and covered in sunburns and freckles and who's too short for his wingspan.  If he puts it off any longer, that ashamed little piece of his psyche will win, and Wash will bury these wants so deep in his chest, he'll smother them into ashes.  And  _ fuck _ , but he wants.  He wants so bad.  To be happier, to be whole, to be everything Tucker deserves in a boyfriend.  And if so small and inconsequential a thing can help, he owes it to Tucker to try.

_ Yeah, scratch that, this is a fucking awful idea.  What the fuck is Tucker gonna think when he finds out you went to your old squad leader for help instead of your boyfriend? _

Wash winces and shakes loose the thought.  Tucker will understand.  He has to.

"Everything okay, rookie?" Carolina's voice carries down the hall, makes Wash jump.  Honest to god jump.  Rubbing the back of his neck as his cheeks do their best impression of cherries, Wash turns toward her.  She's heading back to her bunk, clad in sweat-drenched workout gear, fiery bangs plastered to her forehead.

"Wash?" Her tone changes.  She lays a hand on Wash's shoulder  and ducks to meet his downturned gaze.  "What's wrong?"

_ Now or never. _  He forces his voice through his constricted throat.  "Can we talk?  In private?"

Carolina furrows her brow but nods and leads the way into her quarters.  It's tidy, though he'd expect nothing else from her, but the bare walls and empty shelves make his heart ache.  Back in Freelancer, Carolina's bunk was lined wall to wall in pictures, candid snapshots and posed figures from her corp days all the way to present.  Pictures of anyone and everyone.  Of anything and everything.  And here on Chorus, her room is empty.  

The door closing breaks Wash from his thoughts.  Carolina digs through her foot locker and drags on a clean shirt before asking, "So, what's up?"

"Oh, nothing much," Wash says nonchalantly, still scratching his scalp self-consciously.  Shit, his hair's long.  Why hasn't he gotten it cut?  "Radar's showing the pirates are thinning out.  Just in time since the UNSC should have been ere a week ago."  He pauses, struggling for something to talk about.  "Simmons says it's gonna rain tomorrow."

Carolina throws him a look as she runs a towel over her cropped hair, the same look he can read even when she's got her helmet on and her visor fully tinted.  "Cut the crap, Wash.  What's wrong?  Do I need to pay Tucker a visit?  Make good on a promise I made him."

"No, no," Wash snaps, his hands flying up peaceably.  "Tucker's done nothing.  Please don't take his penis away from him.  He's really got a thing about Sir Engorgeous.  No, everything's great there.  It's just, I..." Wash sighs and drops onto the edge of Carolina's cot.  "I need a favor."

#

The bed dipping behind him wakes Tucker from a bangin' dream featuring twins taking turns riling up Wash until he's a sweaty, stammering mess.  He tenses, on the verge of sitting up when familiar arms wrap around his waist and Wash murmurs, "Go back to bed, Tucker."

Tucker nearly does just that, his eyelids drooping despite himself, except Wash usually doesn't instigate cuddling.  Hell, for the last nearly-three months, it's been Tucker crawling into Wash's bed every night.  Which is fine, he's a tactile person.  He likes this cuddling thing way more than any of the movies he's seen made him think.  But if Wash is here, seeking out comfort... 

"You okay?" Tucker asks as he goes through his mental checklist he jokingly refers to as "Tsunami Warning Signs"--'cuz, y'know,  _ Wash _ .  He's stuck with his back to Wash, so the visual checks are out, but right now Wash is pressing against him, clinging the way he does after a nightmare, and his heart is pounding against Tucker's back.  

Wash makes a tired noise against Tucker's shoulder but doesn't offer further explanation. 

"Nightmare?"

"Tucker, just go to sleep."

It's on the tip of his tongue to press the issue, to get Wash talking even if it's that screechy panicked tone he gets when he's exhausted and still fumbling for a grip on reality.  But Wash's hands aren't shaking.  Even if he's a long line of tension against Tucker's spine, he's not shaking.  Not scared.  

"Fine," Tucker huffs, adding a sleepy groan for effect.  "G'night."

Staring into the darkness of his pillow, Tucker shuffles to get himself into a more comfortable position, lets his breathing even out, and waits.  For so long, he puts up a front of sleeping, and bit by bit, Wash relaxes against him, his breath sighing out before resuming its usual pattern.  Wash nuzzles against his neck, takes a deep breath, and finally gives himself over to exhaustion.  Within minutes, their quarters fill with the barely-there sound of Wash breathing, smooth and even and calm.

Tucker smiles into his pillow and closes his eyes.   _ Fuckin' idiot.  My fuckin' idiot. _

#

Wash is zoning out, staring at his mashed potatoes at lunch one day when Tucker plops down beside him, dressed in civvies because he scored himself a day off.   _ Lucky bastard. _  Wash scooches down the bench to make room for him, not that it does much good; Tucker presses up against him anyway, thigh to thigh, close enough Wash can smell the minty shampoo Tucker uses on days he needs to treat himself.

Grinning, Wash elbows Tucker's side, but when he looks up, Tucker's staring off down the mess hall, his gaze trained on a pretty petite brunette, her fatigues turned into cut-offs, her white t-shirt stained with engine grease.  "Daaaaaaaamn, when did Jensen get hot?"

His stomach turns.  Wash focuses down on his tray.   _ Of course... _  Rolling his eyes, Wash mutters, "Behave, Captain Tucker."

Across the table, Simmons oohs and sing-songs, "Tucker's in trouble.  Tucker's in trouble."

Undeterred, Tucker goes on.  "Don't get me wrong, she's still a huge nerd, but she's  _ that _ trim and still manages to haul around all that armor.  I respect that.  I'd respect that all the way to the pink fortress, bow chicka bow wow."

It's just a joke, Wash tells himself as he gulps down his discomfort.  Just Tucker being Tucker, like always.  So why is his chest pulling tighter and tighter?  Why does his arms want to throttle Tucker?  Or drag him back to their quarters and suck any memory of "women" out through his dick?  It's stupid but he can't help his instincts.

Before Wash does anything stupid, he spies Carolina strutting down the main aisle, a plastic wrapped bundle in her hands.  She doesn't even nod an acknowledgement, just chucks the package at Wash's head and keeps on walking to the chow line.

"What's that?" Tucker asks, nosing into Wash's personal space.

Fumbling the surprisingly light package, Wash's brow wrinkles.  If he'd ordered anything, it'd go straight to his quarters.  So why does Caro--  _ Oh. _

His cheeks burn.  Wash grips the package tight to his chest, weasels his way off the bench.  "I'll see you later.  I need to... shave."

Tucker calls after him, but in lieu of listening, Wash runs.  Full speed back to his quarters, only stills long enough to lock the door and wedge the desk chair under the knob.  Just so he's not disturbed.  When he unsheathes his knife, his hands tremble.  _ Fuck, it's here. _

One quick slice, and Wash pulls his treasure free.  Lace and silk catch on his armored gloves.  Putting his rusty IED defusal skills into practice, Wash sucks in a steadying breath, works off his cloves, and carefully extracts the garments. 

_... oh, fuck me... _

When he'd asked Carolina to order a few pieces of lingerie for him, he'd expected her to laugh in his face and tell him to man up and order it himself.  Instead, she'd given him a studying look and asked him if he knew what he wanted?  Flushing, Wash had told her to use her discretion since he didn't know any better.  And fuck, Carolina had good taste.  Amazing taste.  

The package holds a half dozen pairs of panties, all soft against his fingertips and dyed delicate colors that make Wash blush.  Wash pulls out a pair of lacy lavender underpants, modest enough to be briefs if they weren't mostly transparent.  Eyes wide, Wash touches the fabric to his cheek and groans. Fuck, what was he thinking?  This isn't him.  These tender, luxurious garments.  Surely someone, anyone else would be a better choice for these.  But mouth dry and fingers twitching, Wash lays the panties out on the bed and strips off his armor, under-armor and regulation briefs.  

The fabric tickles as Wash slides them up his legs.  He carefully arranges the leg holes, the lace and elastic kissing against his inner thighs and squeezing his groin, and places the waistband just below the vee of his hips.  Looking down as himself, Wash doesn't fixate on his scars, his imperfections.  Instead, he sees the pale purple lace stretching over his groin, perfectly accentuating his hips, his legs, his ass, and his breath stuck in his throat. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes as Wash trails his fingers over his chest, his stomach, his hips.  When his forearm skims over his penis, he whimpers at the gentle pressure and his penis pulses.  Breathless, Wash laughs, and the blissful tears fall.

For the first time in ages, maybe even ever, Wash sees himself as something, someone, beautiful.

#

Ear pressed against the door to their quarters, Tucker pounds his fist against the wood.  He can hear Wash moving inside, but Wash isn't answering.  Which isn't weird, per say.  Sometimes Wash needs his space and who is Tucker to say "no" to the man he loves?  But this, Carolina passing him a nondescript package and Wash bolting, yeah that's not exactly normal.

"Seriously, Wash? You locked me out?  What, are you masturbating?  Because if so, you know I'm so on board with watching if not lending a helping hand.  C'mon, babe--"

The door flies open, cutting Tucker off, and Wash drags Tucker inside.  Before Tucker can wag his eyebrows or bat his eyelashes, Wash has Tucker pressed up against the door, tongue down his throat and hands everywhere.

_ What the actual fuck! _ Normally it's like pulling teeth to get anything sexy going with Wash, and now he's so eager he's trying to extract Tucker's tonsils with his tongue.   _ But, I mean, it's a step in the right direction. _

Tucker sighs, tips his head back, and lets Wash play.  And when Wash, clad in his skintight under armor, slides to his knees, tugs off Tucker's pants and underwear, drapes Tucker's leg over his shoulder and goes to town, Tucker blisses the fuck out.

Honestly, he may be the luckiest man ever.  Of all time.

#

"Dude, what the fuck?"

Wash nearly leaps out of his desk chair.  Fuck, Tucker caught him sorting through mission reports when he promised he'd put off until tomorrow.  Fuck, he's a horrible boyfriend.  Turning slowly in his seat, Wash faces Tucker, finds him standing in the middle of their quarters where he's sorting through dirty laundry, brow furrowed, mouth dropped open, a pair of panties dangling from the tip of his pointer finger.

_ Fuck.  Laundry day. _  Wash gapes.  He must've forgotten to separate those out for hand washing.  And now Tucker's found them.  Fuck, everything was going so well.  The war had been officially over for the past three weeks, ever since the UNSC ships took orbit over Chorus, and in the ensuing peace, his and Tucker's lives had become a whole lot simpler.  Everything was leveling out, and they were finally able to breathe.

Who knew a scrap of clothing could fuck everything up?

Before Wash can even form a response, Tucker hooks a thumb in each leg hole and spreads them between his thumbs.  And fuck, it couldn't have been the rather demure pair of lacy blue boy shorts or the silky green cheekies.  Nope, instead, Tucker's holding a vivid red thong, so tight and tiny it barely contains Wash's package when he's flaccid.  "I mean, damn Wash," Tucker says stiffly.  "Didn't think you had enough game to pick up a chick on base.  Would've thought you'd at least have the decency to spill the details."

Wash's eyes snap to Tucker.  Sure, it sounds like Tucker's usal cavalier attitude, but he spits out every word, sharp and brittle.  And now that Wash is looking at Tucker, really looking at him, he can see Tucker's throat bobbing hard, his chin thrust out defensively, his shoulders stiff from internalized hurt.  

Tossing the pair of panties at Wash's cot, Tucker scoops the half-sorted laundry into the basket and heads for the door.  "I should check on Caboose.  The idiot can't remember to charge Freckles every night, so what're the odds he'd remember our barrack's laundry day.  I'm gonna--"

Before Tucker finishes his first sentence, Wash is out of his chair and across the room.  He grabs Tucker's wrist just quick enough to stay his exit.  "Tucker."

And Tucker flinches.  Honest to god flinches.  Wash's gut spasms, suddenly feeling all of two inches tall and shrinking.  Fuck, how did this situation get so out of hand?  

"It's cool, man," Tucker says, not quite meeting Wash's gaze.  "I mean, we never said we were exclusive or anything.  A lotta ladies around here wil be pretty jazzed for another shot at riding the Tucker Express."

His ears burn.  "Please, Tucker, don't even joke about that."

"Says the cheater?" Tucker snaps his wrist out of Wash's grasp.  "Real pot and kettle of you, Wash."

"I didn't."  Wash stares after him, his head spinning.  "I haven't.  I wouldn't do that.  Not to anyone, but especially not you."

Tucker's jaw tenses.  "Oh, and what, those just happened to fall into the dirty laundry?  Or did we accidentally pick them up during the last laundry day?" He scoffs.  "I'm not an idiot, Wash.  I've kept my fair share of trophies over the years.  Enough to know a guilty conscience when I see one.  So bow chicka fuck off, okay!"

"They aren't trophies," Wash screeches.

"Trophies, souvenirs, whatever helps you sleep at night."  Tucker turns to the door.

_ No, no, no! _  Tucker can't just walk out.  Not when Wash's hands are shaking and his heart's beating so fast it might take off and leave him behind.  Not when he can come clean and make this right.  He flushes so hard his ears ring, but he doesn't need to hear to know he's speaking.  

"They're mine."

Tucker stiffens again, his knuckles white around the laundry basket.  "Uh huh, sure they are."

Without pause, Wash's numb hands go to his fly.  "Tucker," he pleads, wide eyed.   _ Just don't open the door.  Please just look at me. _

"What!" Tucker spins toward him, angry tears brimming in his eyes. With a steadying swallow, Wash drops his pants. "What could you possibly--"

Tucker stops midsentence, gaping at the pair of pink panties spread across Wash's hips, lace around the waistband, polka-dotted panels straining around his cock and balls.  From the waist down, Wash is bare for Tucker.  And yes, he and Tucker have showered together before, but this is the first time Wash's fingers tremble, the first time he's felt properly naked.  Tucker's eyes sweep up and down Wash, his eyes bulging.

And Tucker drops the laundry basket and half collapses against the door, cackling.  He laughs so hard big tears roll down his dark cheeks and he has to clutch his stomach to keep from crumpling.  Wash ducks his head, shame rolling through him.   _ Fuck, what did you expect, idiot?  Yeah, Tucker's a perv, but every perv has his limit. _  Really, he should've know better.

"Wow," Tucker says breathlessly, "gotta hand it to you, Wash, definitely wasn't expecting  _ anything _ like this.  Were you wearing them all morning?"

Wash's head snaps upright.  Now that Tucker's had a moment to compose himself, he's leaning back against the door, his arms crossed and a wicked leer pulling at his cheeks.  The look alone makes Wash gasp, but a moment later his brain catches up with him.  Tucker wasn't laughing out of spite or malice.  He was....relieved. 

Running a nervous hand through his hair, Wash tugs the hem of his t-shirt a little lower to cover his groin--which, of course  _ now _ his God-damn penis decides to take a God-damn interest in the proceedings.   _ Jesus Christ. _  Exhaling, he says, "Yeah.  Most days we're not in uniform."

"For how long now?"

Wash's blush darkens.  "About a month, give or take."

" _ Fuck, _ " Tucker groans like Wash's admission is literally the stuff dreams are made of.  "I knew you and Carolina were up to something sneaky, but this..." His eyes make another sweep up Wash's legs.  "Fuck, Wash."

"Nothing happened," Wash insists, his lips trembling despite himself.  "Not with Lina, not with anyone.  She just... I asked her to put in the order for me."

"Oh, thank fuck."

And without another word, Tucker pounces, muscling Wash out of his shirt and onto the cot.  His fingers leave lines of heat down Wash's torso, his mouth trailing after, nibbling, biting, kissing.  Wash tries to flip them, tries to get a hand in edgewise or kiss back, but Tucker pins his hips to the bed and worships every inch of him, but he pays extra attention to the panties and everything they cover.

Tucker strokes his thumb across the lacy waistband, ducking his head between Wash's thighs and breathing in his scent.  He leaves kisses up Wash's legs and nips along the leg holes.  Wash fisted his hands in the bedsheets, light headed and more turned on than he's been in a very long time.  Christ, he's already leaking against his silky drawers.  And Tucker, the cheeky bastard, leans up and takes a careful little lick along the wet spot, close enough to tease but not nearly firm enough to satisfy.  Head thrown back, Wash keens for something.   _ Anything. _

"Fuck, Wash," Tucker says into the hollow of Wash's hips, tracing his dick with a fingertip.  "You are not allowed to hide shit like this from me again.  Especially kinky shit.  Fuck, do you have any idea how hot you look in these?"

"Y-you," Wash stutters for breath, looking down cautiously, "you like them?"

Tucker beams.  "Fuck, yeah, dude!  I mean, you're a sight to begin with, gorgeous in that distanced, "don't fuck with me" way, but in lingerie, fuck.  I want you to sit on my face and eat you out.  Or ride you until neither of us can move.  Or just keep touching you just right until you cream your panties."

Wash can't help himself; he moans, hips arching up into Tucker's teasing.  Shit, who the fuck is he and what has he done with the Agent Washington that woke up this morning, the one who never really cared about sex or relationships or any of this mess?  

But then Tucker drops down and properly mouths at Wash's penis, not even bothering to pull the panties out of the way, and another moan slips out, high and breathy and so fucking needy it makes him blush.  

It takes an unnervingly short time before Wash can't stop bucking up into Tucker's heat.  Between Tucker's tongue working him and his cock leaking like a goddamn faucet, his panties are soaked.  He can practically see his dick, thick and red and twitching at the slightest touch.  Tucker pulls back, blows a stream of cool air across his groin, and Wash squirms.  Fuck, how much farther can he go before he shatters into a million little pieces? 

"Tuck," Wash grunts out, his voice wrecked.  " 'm not gonna last."

"Shhh," Tucker replies, stroking Wash's hip before shoving off his own pants and kissing up to Wash's mouth.  "I got you, Wash.  I'm gonna take care of you, promise."  He throws one of Wash's legs over his shoulders and settles between his legs, knees planted firm.   

"I don't have... we need lu--"

Tucker cuts him off with a kiss, soft and sweet with a twist of tongue that leaves Wash shivering.  "I already told you, babe.  No lube.  No condoms.  I'm gonna make you cum in your panties."  And without another word, Tucker grinds down against Wash, lining up their cocks and letting Wash's soaked underwear ease the way.

"Fuck!" Wash shouts, tightening his leg around Tucker and bucking up against him.  With his hands, he drags Tucker down and dives into a kiss, hard and fast until he's left panting into Tucker's mouth, mouthing  _ yes, yes, yes _ at each thrust.

"Like that, babe?" 

Wash nods fervently.

Smirking, Tucker slows, working his hips in tight little circles, and Wash's eyes water because  _ fuck, where has this been all my life? _

"Tucker, please," Wash pants, his hands roving over Tucker's torso before they settle on his nipples.  Tucker's pace stutters for two seconds before his closes his eyes and focuses, rutting hard and fast.  Grinning, Wash arches against him.  "More," he whispers.

Tucker doesn't let up doesn't stop, just powers on through, dropping his forehead to Wash's collarbone and biting.  

Wash gasps, the surge of pain lancing through him, lighting him up from the inside out, and he can't hold back, not even for a second.  Collapsing back against the bed, he comes.  

#

Watching Wash melt in pleasure tips Tucker over the edge.  His hips sputter, and he comes hard, splattering Wash's chest with seed.  As he comes down, Tucker takes his weight off of Wash and just looks at him.  Cheeks flushed and stained by tear tracks, a fucked-out smile covering his big dumb face.  Limbs loose, and covered neck to groin in cum, those pale pink panties sticking to his dick.  Fuck, Wash is a vision of debauchery, and if Wash didn't look ready to pass out, Tucker might flip him onto his stomach, pull down those panties and fuck him again.  

Wash's hands reach for him as Tucker slides out of bed.  "Stay?" he asks, eyes unfocused and his voice so unsure it makes Tucker want to pull him into his arms and never let him go.

"Just getting us cleaned up," Tucker says, squeezing Wash's knuckles.  "I'll be right back."

Hesitantly, Wash nods. 

Tucker grabs an old towel out of the dirty clothes to mop up their collective sweat and come.  With delicate motions, he strips off Wash's panties and sets them in an old cup of water to soak--even with supply lines reopened, ordering more will be a fuckin' nightmare.  Once they're both clean, Tucker pulls down the blankets and slides in with Wash, pulling his boyfriend against his chest and stroking Wash's hair as they both doze.  But too many questions nag at him, too many uncertainties for him to properly rest.  So Tucker waits until Wash to come back to himself, stretching his limbs and easing his grip on Tucker.  

"So," Tucker says carefully, "the panty kink, is that why everything's been so hot and cold between us?"

Wash stiffens, but he doesn't retreat.  He rests his head against Tuckers shoulder.  "Sort of."

"Did you think I wouldn't be cool with it?"

Even though Tucker can't see Wash's face, he can feel his cheeks burning against his shoulder.  Wash curls against him a little tighter.  With a sigh, Wash shakes his head.  "No, not that.  I just... this is all really new to me, and I don't... I guess I thought you weren't invested in all this."

"Dude, what the fuck?" The second time today Tucker's said it, but this time, he's confused, not hurt.  "I'm crazy for you.  Over the moon.  Wrapped around your finger.  Hell, if I hadn't had a catheter and an IV in, I would've been on you in a hot second when you confessed your love for me."

"I didn't confess my love for you."

"Yeah, you did.  It was so embarrassing," Tucker teases.  "And you're avoiding the question."

Wash squirms against him.  "I'm sorry.  I just got jealous."

"Jealous? Why?"

Now Wash snorts.  "Tucker, in case you haven't noticed, you're kind of a flirt."

"And?"

"And when you say you're my boyfriend but still flirting with "all your ladies," it makes me think..." Wash trailed off shaking his head.  

Tucker's stomach twists uneasily.  "What?"

"No, that's not important," Wash goes on, looking up at Tucker with those deep blue eyes, so deep that, yes, Tucker would totally dive in and drown, cliché be damned.  "What's important is, I don't want you to stop being you.  You being a hopeless flirt is part of why I fell in love with you.  I'm just out of my depth here and I'm... I'm a mess.  I'm trying to be better, but I'm scared of fucking it up and losing you."

Without another word, Tucker pulls Wash on top of him, wraps his arms around Wash's waist and holds tight.  Wash's breath sputters in his chest, but he doesn't make another sound.  Just clings to Tucker.  

When Wash's breathing evens out again, Tucker still holds tight, leaning close to Wash's ear.  He whispers, "Hey, you and me too, Wash.  I'm as clueless as you.  But I'm here for you, no matter what.  And if something's wrong, just tell me, okay?"

"Okay."  

And with that said, Wash scoots down and tucks his head under Tucker's chin.  As they drift off, Tucker decides that if he's gonna keep being the flirtatious stud Wash fell in love with, he's gonna have to make sure he gives Wash more than his fair share of attention and affection.   _ Gonna make him blush and forget how to talk at least twice a day.  From now until ever. _

And that is the kind of life goal he can get behind.   _ Bow chicka bow wow. _

#

"Happy anniversary, babe," Tucker says as he blindfolds Wash and leads him into their tiny cottage just outside of Armonia, close enough they can be on base if there's an emergency, but far enough they have their privacy.  

When they reach the bedroom and Tucker removes the blindfold, Wash gets an eyeful of Tucker's chocolate skin paired against teal lace.  No, not teal.  Aqua, as Tucker always insists. Wash gulps.  Fuck, Tucker is wearing lingerie.  That, fuck, Wash hadn't thought that would be a thing, but Tucker can rock a pair of thigh highs and a garter belt.  

Wash steps forward despite himself, but Tucker lays a hand on his chest to stop him. "Not yet."  He pushes a box into Wash's arms and shoves him toward the ensuite bathroom.  "First you gotta put on your present."

As soon as the bathroom door closes behind him, Wash fumbles open the box.  At the sight of, more aqua, he laughs.  Of course Tucker got them a matching set.   _ Of course _ .  But fuck, if Tucker's jumped in head first every time Wash puts on a new pair of panties, imagine how he's gonna react to seeing Wash in  _ his  _ color.

Wash shivers, strips, and smiles.  

_ Here's to the first of many. _

THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, Comments, and Concrit welcome! Come scream with me on Tumblr (birdsbeesandlemonadetrees.tumblr.com)


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